A Reputation to Maintain
by 200YRS2L8
Summary: A mission gone horribly wrong, is just the beginning of a very difficult journey.


This story is a work of fiction, borrowing characters created by others. I do not own, or make any claim, to any of the characters in this story.

This story is dedicated to Storyfan101.

_**A Reputation to Maintain**_

by 200YRS2L8

* * *

Hannibal Smith bent down to light the fuse with the tip of his cigar. He paused for effect, and smiled. "I love it when a plan comes-"

The scream of the incoming rocket propelled grenade cut off his words. The explosion tossed him like a rag doll. Then everything went black.

* * *

Faceman drew a careful bead on the RPG operator and was about to squeeze the trigger, when a searing white-hot pain flashed through him. A fraction of a second later he heard the sound of the shot from off to one side. He jerked violently sideways, his gun flew the other direction, and he landed face down in the dirt.

* * *

Murdock was humming the "Loonie Tunes" theme, preparing to cut loose a carefully stacked pile of logs at the top of the hill, and yell "The- The- The- That's All Folks!" when a fist the size of a ham slammed into the back of his head. He crumpled like a house of cards.

* * *

B.A. Baracus staggered through the thick jungle, drenched in sweat, gasping and labouring under the heavy load. "They gotta be late!" he muttered, more to keep himself moving, than to offer any serious reassurance. "Nearly there... they gotta be late... GOTTA be... can't be much further..." He willed himself to keep going, he had to make the rendezvous point. He was behind schedule, and for good reason, but excuses wouldn't cut it. And excuses wouldn't make their ticket out of this mess stick around any longer than planned at the pickup point. And if he missed the rendezvous...

"They GOTTA be late..." he continued a few more steps, then paused to listen and scan the sky through the trees overhead. Nothing. "Good! They runnin' late... gotta be... we gonna make it!" and he resumed his slow progress, nearly bent double under the load he carried.

Then he heard it. "No..." he whispered, straining to listen. "Dammit, NOOOOO!" he yelled. The sound sent a cold chill through his body, but he increased his pace. Quite clear now, the sound from the twin turboprops was changing in a slow regular rhythm... the plane was circling the rendezvous point. Circling. Looking for a signal. B.A. pushed his tired and battered body as fast as he could, and shifted his load awkwardly to prevent dropping it altogether. He crashed through the jungle like a wounded elephant, desperately trying to make it to their only escape. The engine sound was getting louder, it made his skin crawl, but he was nearly there!

Then the engine sound changed. Or rather it stopped changing. The plane was no longer circling, and the hum grew gradually fainter. B.A. continued crashing through the bush, now more from his own staggering momentum than from anything else. He burst from the jungle into the clearing just in time to see a glint of white disappear over the treetops. Gone.

He stood there at the edge of the jungle for a good minute, bent nearly double by the load on his back, but with his head tilted sideways, squinting up at the treetops. Then he set his load down, straightened up with a grimace, and started to look around.

He pointedly avoided the large object across the clearing, nearly overgrown by the encroaching jungle, and focused his attention on the rest of his surroundings. He searched high and low, checked and rechecked all the possibilities. But after half an hour of frustration, his gaze inevitably returned to the other side of the clearing. He closed his eyes tight for several seconds, as if holding back some deep pain. He shook momentarily, but it seemed to pass. He glanced back the way he had come, then down at the load he had carried all those miles through the jungle. He shook his head, hardly believing what he was about to do, and got to work.

* * *

Faceman half-woke to a pounding sensation. Once he started to come to, the intense pain in the rest of his body brought him fully awake, and it was almost enough to put him out again. He gasped, gritted his teeth and squinted his eyes open to try to figure out where he was. It was semi-dark, and smelled strongly of musty old car, jungle, blood, and... he frowned, what the hell?... Hannibal sweat? He was lying awkwardly, face down, on a pile of something, and any attempt at movement sent white hot pain through his body. And the pounding... he had never... experienced anything... like it before... He shook his head gently to try to clear it, and realized it was in fact not coming from inside his head, but seemingly from all around him. Loud, metallic, and... punctuated by muttering? He winced with every new blow, and thought he actually heard B.A.'s voice in between some of them. He took a breath to call out, but all that came was a gasp of agony, and a few groans.

However little it was, it must have been enough, because the pounding stopped, and he heard footsteps nearby on the jungle floor, then the same footsteps on metal, coming closer. The last few steps actually seemed to shake the ground, or floor, or whatever it was, under him. He heard the clink of gold chains, and felt a pair of glaring eyes on his back, though he couldn't turn his head to see.

"B.A.?" Faceman croaked, hardly more than a whisper.

"Listen fool!" B.A. responded, not quite yelling. "I dunno what the hell happened back there, ain't nobody ever got the drop on us like that before!"

"B.A.-" Face tried to reply.

"You... Hannibal... Murdock... they damn near got me too."

"B.A.-"

"But I stopped 'em. I finished the job... blew the drug factory sky high."

"B.A.-"

"Then I hauled YOUR ASSES 20 miles through the jungle after the jeep broke down."

"B.A.-"

"And I been wrenchin' on this... this..." he looked around with greasy hands raised and a pained expression on his face, "on THIS, for the last 12 hours while you lie there sleepin' it off like a bad night in Vegas!"

"I see you haven't-" Face drew a painful breath through clenched teeth, "lost your sense of humour."

B.A. broke into a half smile and seemed to relax a little. "Glad you awake, Face. I was worried. How you doin?"

"Not good... lotta pain..."

"Pain is goood, means you're still connected an alive enough to feel somethin. That's goood."

"Your jungle philosophy... is very... comforting..."

"Yeah, an so's your smart mouth." B.A. actually smiled at this. "And how's Hannibal doin'?"

"How should I know... I just got here."

"Well, you been lyin on top of him for half a day. He BETTER still be alive." B.A. finished, seeming to imply it was Faceman's responsibility.

Face tried to move again but the pain stopped him.

"Hey, don move, fool."

"Wh... what the hell am I doing... lying on Hannibal?"

"Listen, jus don move OK? Look, you were both tore up... tore up bad, y'see? Blood all over, only way to stop you bleedin to death was pressure. No way I could apply pressure an drag you outta there at the same time, see? So I hadda stack you and your bandages, on top of him an his bandages, with more bandages in between.. You're stoppin each other bleedin to death. So don move."

"Got it, no move... he's breathing... still out... Murdock?"

"Yeah, he's here too. Crazy fool got hisself hit bad on the head, messed him up even worse than normal. Hadda carry him out too. When we got here, he kept tryin to wander off, kept runnin into trees an fallin over an stuff, and he wouldnt shut up that opera singin. Hadda tie him up an gag him, for his own good..." B.A. smiled, "Man how many times I wanted to do THAT!"

A long, drawn out, muffled tenor note came from a dark corner nearby. B.A. rolled his eyes, shook his head, and sighed.

"Wheres... here?"

"We made the rendezvous point, the ol abandoned airfield. Only we were late cos of that piece of junk jeep YOU scrounged for us."

Faceman winced, but not from the pain of his injuries.

"I knew they'd be after us, jus a matter of time. So I carried you, all three of you, the rest of the way here."

"They didn't wait...?"

"Not any longer than they were supposed to. I did my best, went as fast as I could, an you an Hannibal might have, uh taken a tree branch here an there for the team."

Faceman winced again, and B.A. half smiled.

"Not much left here," B.A. continued, looking around "an what is left is pretty far gone. Even the buildins are fallin down."

"But... we're inside...?" Faceman frowned.

"Open your eyes man! You inside a plane! Some ol Russian transport, near as I can tell. Like I said, I been workin on it for hours. Ol shack walls to patch the missin wing sections, a door for the rudder, tractor tire for a landin wheel, eight different kinds of rusted, broken spark plugs, an THATS just for the cylinders that aren't completely rusted through. Be a minor miracle if the engines even start. Major miracle if it flies."

"I have confidence... in you B.A." Faceman wheezed, "You work... your magic... I know Murdock... can fly us out of here..."

B.A. said nothing.

"Silence is golden..." Faceman continued quietly, "Come on B.A. ... Murdock?"

"Listen man, he's in no shape to fly a flag, let alone fly a plane. He can't walk straight, I dunno if he can see straight, or even see at all. He ain't all there at the best of times, but he's barely there AT ALL now. Like I said, he's messed up real bad."

"Hannibal can fly..."

"He's hurt worse than you, lost a lot of blood. He ain't come-to since the ambush. Hannibal ain't flyin us out."

"B.A. I don't think I can-"

"You ain't flying out either!"

"Then who-?"

"I got a lot of work to do." B.A. stood up angrily. "They gonna come after us as soon as they can get some men together. An you ain't gonna be no help. So jus stay there, shut up, and don move!" and with that he turned and stomped out.

* * *

Faceman thought he slept during the night, but he couldn't be sure. What might have been dreams, kept mixing with his jumbled and pain-distorted recollection of the mission and the ambush. And that surreal stream of semi-consciousness was often interrupted by nearby mechanical noises, punctuated by B.A.'s mutterings.

Just after dawn, B.A. re-entered the plane, and slumped to the floor next to Face and Hannibal. He checked their vitals, then leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, near exhaustion.

After a few minutes, Face whispered "What's the plan, big guy?"

Silence from B.A.

Face continued "Ah, I should have guessed... you couldn't get this old bucket... whipped back into shape... by yourself..."

"Sh'up fool!" muttered B.A.

"Look, I'm sure you did your best... no harm in admitting-"

"It's done!" B.A. hissed through clenched teeth.

"Done? Whats... done?"

"The PLANE is done, that's what's done." B.A. was still sweating heavily in spite of his rest. "It'll go, but I dunno if we gettin outta here."

"Look B.A., your fabrication skills... have saved our butts... more times than I can count. If you say it'll go... that means it'll damn near take us... to the ends of the earth. But we're not going anywhere... without a pilot."

B.A.'s jaw clenched and his shoulders tensed, but he didn't say a word.

"I mean, it's not like YOU'RE gonna fly us out of here."

B.A.'s eyes opened wide, and he gave Face a look that made him momentarily fear for his life.

"Look B.A... you went way above and beyond... saved the mission... carried us out... fixed the plane, you're exhausted, the stress is getting to you. It's not your fault... you can't fly this thing-"

"What?" B.A. whispered, nostrils flaring and that killer gaze never wavering from Face.

"Look relax OK? For all we ride you about being afraid to fly-"

"WHADYOU SAY?" B.A. exploded, jumping to his feet. "Whadyou say? CAN'T fly? AFRAID? Listen fool, in all the times you jokers tried to get me into a plane, you ever hear me say I _CAN'T_ fly? I said I don wanna fly, I don like flyin, I hate flyin, you can't make me fly, I ain't gonna fly with that crazy fool Murdock." He paused to catch his breath.

"But you ever heard me say I _CAN'T_ fly?"

"OK B.A., take it easy... no I never heard you say you can't fly." If he could have moved at all, Face would have backed away, fast. "No reason you couldn't fly, I suppose... with a big enough catapult, or the right amount of C4..."

"Sh'up fool. SH'UP!" B.A. looked like he was about to tear the plane apart, he was shaking and sweating, his chest was heaving and his eyes were unnaturally wide. But he stood stock still for nearly two minutes, before a change seemed to come over him, and he relaxed a little and sat back down.

"OK listen," he said, the struggle for control evident in his voice, "I ain't never told nobody this before, not even Hannibal. So you gotta promise me you never repeat it?" Faceman nodded. "OK, well, couple years back I got tired, real tired y'see, of you clowns druggin me or hypnotizin me or hittin me over the head to try to get me into some stupid plane. Ain't no wonder I... I... don like flyin. Anyway, I decided to do somethin about it. B.A. Baracus ain't afraid of nothin, so I decided, y'know, face it head on, tackle the, uh, situation," he paused, considering his words carefully, "I signed up to get my pilot's license."

Faceman's jaw dropped.

"Don look at me like that. I ACED ground school, top of my class! The basics in the simulators were a piece of cake. Even the advanced stuff, twin engines, night flyin, bad weather, malfunctions, emergencies, I handled em all."

"So you got your license?"

"No man..." B.A. said very quietly, shaking his head, and the last of his anger seemed to drain away. "Jus like out on the street, an in the army, you got to prove you can do it for real. Real airplane, real runway, real flyin. I got in that plane maybe seven, eight times. Even taxi'd to the end of the runway once. But that was all, man. That was it. I didn't graduate."

"B.A..." Faceman, for once, was at a loss for words.

"An now here we are. Stuck in the middle of the jungle. Angry drug lords out for blood for what we did to em. If I can't get us outta here, we ain't gettin out alive." He clenched his fists, "Ain't no other way." His shoulders tensed, "I ain't gonna die here... WE ain't gonna die here." his jaw muscles clenched and unclenched. He held his hands out, and they shook visibly. He raised, then lowered his head, over and over again, eyes shut tight. Deep ragged breaths didn't just shake his body, they seemed to shake the whole plane. He staggered to the side of the plane, with its missing cargo door, and gripped the frame, looking for all the world like he was about to jump. Then he froze.

He didn't breathe, didn't so much as twitch a muscle for a good thirty seconds. Then he slowly moved his head from side to side, alternately closing his eyes, and then opening them to peer into the early morning jungle gloom around them.

He stepped back from the door and hastily threw a rotten old cargo net over Face and Hannibal, and fastened it to the floor. Then he quickly checked Murdock, and sprinted towards the front of the plane.

"B.A.!" Face called with all the strength he could find. B.A. stopped and looked back. "You crash this thing... I promise I won't look."

B.A. sneered a half smile, then turned for the cockpit.

* * *

B.A. paused for a good long ten-count before entering the cockpit. His stomach was churning as he settled into the pilot seat and fastened what was left of the seat belt. He reached one hand towards the remains of the instrument panel. It shook so hard his rings rattled. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, then reached again. His hand still shook.

He flipped a series of switches, and the left engine began to emit a whine, then a brief screeching metal-on-metal sound. He flipped another switch on and off, and intermittent grinding was all he got for his troubles for a good dozen tries. But then it caught and the engine began to slowly turn over. It rumbled and coughed and sputtered, as the prop slowly turned.

"I could do this faster by hand!" he muttered, as he jockeyed the throttle slightly back and forth. After a few more seconds, it began to speed up, coughing louder and vibrating even worse. Puffs of black, white, and blue smoke escaped from different parts of the engine, some even from the exhaust ports. He nudged the throttle a little further and the engine finally stumbled along on its own. B.A. winced at the sound and the vibration - an old radial engine running unbalanced on about two thirds of its cylinders, with mis-sized and mis-matched spark plugs, burning an unholy mixture of anything flammable that he could find and pour into the tank. But it ran, somehow it ran, and a grim smile turned up one corner of his mouth.

He went through a similar coaxing with the other engine, with similar results. The right hand engine was missing one more cylinder, so it vibrated even worse, but after just a few minutes he had both engines running.

He did a quick check of ailerons, flaps, elevators, and rudder. Everything felt loose and sloppy and heavy, but it wasn't going to get any better. He squinted through the cracked windshield at the treetops, to check the wind direction. Damn, opposite to what he needed. He'd have to taxi to the far end of, what was left of the old dirt runway, then turn around into the wind, and hope for the best.

He eased the throttles forward. The noise was terrible, and the plane shook badly... and it didn't move. He pushed them a little more, then a little more. Finally the old plane broke free of the last of the jungle that held it, and lurched out into the clear. B.A. fought the controls to try to get it facing the right direction, and to avoid plowing right off and into the jungle on the other side. The plane veered drunkenly from side to side as it bounced down the old runway. He backed off the throttles and relied on the half flat tires and rusted wheel bearings to slow the plane - brakes were an option he hadn't had time to work on.

At the far end of the runway, just as he was getting ready to turn around, one of the cockpit side windows went suddenly white. Thousands of cracks had an instant frosting effect, except for the thumb-sized hole where the bullet had just entered. B.A. ducked instinctively, and spun the controls to turn the plane. As soon as he saw open space ahead again, he pushed the throttles half way forward, grasped the cross hanging on one of the many chains around his neck, and tried not to think about his churning stomach and spinning head.

He couldn't hear he gunshots over the engines, though he knew they were coming. And he couldn't distinguish the bullets hitting the plane, from the terrible engine vibrations, but he could see holes appearing in the hastily repaired wings. He placed the cross between his lips, and eased the throttles further forward, his other hand on the yoke desperately trying to keep it on the runway. The old plane gradually gathered speed, and the end of the runway came into sight. His shaking hand somehow stayed on he vibrating throttles, and pushed for more. He had never heard engines sound this bad, and still keep running. More holes appeared in the wings, and he now heard the occasional zing as bullets struck metal somewhere in the cockpit. His arms and legs felt like lead, his chest and head felt ready to explode. The runway swam in and out of focus. And the old plane continued to gather speed.

He blinked and squinted hard at the roughly jeep-sized object that emerged from the jungle and stopped part way down the runway. Orange and yellow flashes appeared either side of it, and an instant later a hail of bullets clattered around him.

B.A.'s stomach lurched as he felt the tail begin to lift, and he was suddenly grateful he hadn't eaten in over a day. There was no way they would clear the jeep in time, and momentary panic gave way to training, reflexes, and more than a little desperation. He nudged the rudder left as gently as he could - just enough, he hoped, to get off the runway's center line. Then at the last moment before impact, he banked the controls hard left.

Though the tail had begun to lift, the main wheels still rolled along the ground. He didn't have enough speed and lift to get the whole plane off the ground yet. But maybe he didn't need to... maybe half the plane would be enough.

If he had been airborne, his left wing would have dipped, his right wing would have lifted, and the entire plane would have banked to the left. But rolling along the ground at just below takeoff speed, the right wing came up just a few feet before it ran out of lift. The gunmen dove for the side of the runway, and the plane's right wing cleared the jeep by inches.

B.A. felt as if his heart would stop, as the tilted horizon before him alternated between double and triple vision. But even in that state, he could feel a small change in the plane.

"I'll... be... damned!" he yelled, as he fought to keep it balanced on one wheel. With the tail and one wing in the air, and only one half-inflated tire still rolling along the ground, it had less than half the rolling resistance of a moment before. The plane surged forward just enough to feel, and the extra speed was just enough to get the other wheel off the ground.

Airborne!

His head felt ready to let go of his body, and he blinked and squinted to keep the world around him from going beyond triple-vision. And he fought just as hard to keep his stomach under control, as he fought to keep the plane under control. He resisted the urge to pull back on the yoke to gain altitude. The jungle at the end of the runway was approaching fast, but he needed more speed - a hard climb now would only produce a stall, and then-... he forced his mind away from that line of thought.

"Jus hold it level..." he muttered to himself. He knew none of the gauges worked, so didn't bother looking down to try to read his speed. He concentrated on holding the controls steady so the plane could pick up as much air speed as possible at its own pace.

"Hold it level..."

Sweat poured from every inch of his body, his eyes were wide, and every muscle was rock hard with tension and shaking from more than just the vibrations of the straining engines. Seconds passed... the end of the runway loomed closer... a seemingly solid green wall that looked taller with every passing moment.

"Hold it level..."

His heart seemed to pound even louder than the engines, and he fought to keep the world around him in focus. The unsteady plane moved back and forth under him, and the movements in his insides seemed to magnify everything as the old plane clawed its way forward. Tunnel vision had begun to set in, and it was nearly impossible to distinguish the green of the runway, from the green of the jungle. He held steady as long as he dared... as long as he dared... as long as-

"NOW!" he yelled, and hauled back on the controls.

The old plane lurched upwards, and B.A. felt every protruding rivet in the bare metal of the seat as the G forces pushed him down. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and continued to pull back on the controls. Loud metallic creaking noises came from all around him, as the plane desperately climbed into the air. Rusted bolts snapped and worn old rivets popped under the strain. B.A. was sure something in him would explode too, and it was all he could do to hold on and stay conscious.

He opened one eye and saw treetops coming straight at him. He closed it and braced for impact. A terrible crashing and snapping sound seemed to come from all around, and he lurched forward as the plane slowed slightly. Then it was gone and he could feel bright sunlight on his face, though his eyes were still closed. A different kind of vibration began in the plane, and one wing started to dip.

"Damn, stall!" he muttered as he shoved the controls forward and opened his eyes. He was just above the jungle canopy, and somehow still airborne. He looked right and left, and and saw the leading edges of both wings shedding branches and leaves. Levelling out his flight had averted the stall just in time, and the plane gained back the speed it had apparently lost as it clipped the treetops at the end of the runway. When B.A. judged he had enough speed to allow for a margin of safety, he throttled the engines back, and looked around.

"Early mornin... sun to the East... gotta head North... that way." he inclined his head, and carefully banked the plane. "Come on baby, hold together," he muttered, "Hold together." He held out a shaking hand in front of him and repeated in a lower voice, "Come on, hold together."

* * *

"Capitán! Come! Listen to this!"

"What is is sergeant?"

"The radio, listen!" The sergeant took off his headphones and flipped a switch. Loud static came from the speaker, broken by a deep, unsteady voice.

"-Alpha Tango Uno, mayday... this is Alpha Tango Uno, mayday... code blue red blue... Alpha Tango Uno, mayday, code blue red blue..."

The captain's eyes widened, "It can't be!"

"Could it be a trick?" asked the sergeant.

"I think I recognize the voice..." the captain was hesitant.

"Anti-aircraft has them on radar now," the sergeant reported. "Treetop level, just over 100 knots, headed this way, coming from the South... course very erratic." he finished uncertainly.

"Alpha Tango Uno, mayday, code blue red blue... Dammit after what I been through, you BETTER not try an shoot me down, fool... Alpha Tango Uno, code blue red blue... one more bullet come my way an I swear I hunt you down and shove one of Hannibal's cigars right up-"

"It's them!" the captain cut in with a smile. "Sergeant, anti-aircraft stand down immediately! Clear the main runway! Emergency crews ready!"

Minutes later, an old Russian twin engine transport slowly lumbered into view. It dipped and wobbled through the air, and smoke poured from both engines. It dropped dangerously as it lined up with the runway, then seemed to recover a little, and resumed its unsteady descent. Moments before touchdown, an orange flash came from one engine, followed immediately by a cloud of black smoke, and the plane lurched in mid air. The men on the ground held their breaths, expecting a terrible crash. But the pilot somehow steadied the plane enough for the main gear to touch down. He immediately shut down the other engine, and what was left of the old aircraft drifted to a wavering stop two thirds of the way down the runway. Soldiers surrounded the plane, weapons ready, and waited.

They found three men in the back of the plane, with serious injuries but still alive, and they were taken to the base hospital. They found the pilot still strapped into his seat, and slumped over the controls. Though unconscious and drenched in sweat, he seemed to have no obvious injuries. It took three of them to get the big man out of the cockpit and onto a waiting stretcher. None of them noticed when he half-opened one eye, and looked around. They somehow missed the deep sigh as he was carried away from the plane. And the precautionary oxygen mask they put over his face covered the smile that he couldn't hide, even after everything he had been through. But he closed his eyes, said nothing, and didn't move.

"I got a reputation to maintain!" he thought, as he finally let himself drift off.


End file.
